Today my alarm went off in the middle of the night. But it wasn’t the middle of the night it was swimming time. Straight into costume and towel poncho, swim shoes on, down to the beach. It was still mostly black, the water splashed with light, the sky faintly bluer than the water. We waded in. The water was icy, biting at my outer thighs, belly, ribs. The water was only black splashed with mercury, silver and velvet slipping together, endless forming, shifting shattering shapes dancing below the trees. We went out to Emily, turning towards the lights of Barmouth in the distance. The light came, creeping in, filling the sky with pale lemon while our heads were down, absorbed in the waters inky blackness. The timber bridge stretched across the horizon, backlit by the dawn. I swam away, toward the mountains, tried to get out along from where I got in, but swam into endless snaking rafts of bladderwrack and retreated, back out to the blackness, back into land through my normal seaweed free corridor.
Later, we went to Arthog church, read the inscriptions at the top of the inner wall, the dates on the window (1830), the sign asking for 10 shillings to the vicar for burials. I walked among the gravestones, trying to read shallow letters beneath spotted lichen. The earliest I found was from 1918. My favourite was one engraved ‘from the stress of the dooer to the peace of the done’. I find a bench, half hidden, eaten away by brambles and unfollowers buddleia. A robin lands on a new gravestone near us and his feet slip, scrabble a moment for purchase on the wet. I find a witches hat mushroom in the damp grass.
We walk up to the waterfalls, listen to rushing water, surrounded by noise and fallen leaves and lichen. When we get home the sky has fallen into the water, ultra high definition clouds laces with pink, caramel, rust and chocolate hills all upside down. Later, we go out again, toward Barmouth. The sky is splitting, yellow to dusk, and we walk out, along the bridge, or feet clunking, clipping across damp timber in the dark. On the horizon the sky still sings, but close by we see black humps of land, shimmering blue sand, mountains of midnight. The bridge stretches away, calling us on, but we turn and behind us, now there are now fish lights to call us, we are walking into night. When we come down to the field, torches on, we find the tide, so low a moment ago, had turned. The rocks we clambered over are submerged. We discuss going the long way by the road, take off our socks and boots and wade across, cold water, fast current, sinking mud and laughter taking us home.
Bonnie Radcliffe 